


Positive Reinforcement

by DeathknightQ



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon-typical references to Reese's previous job duties, M/M, Referenced use of period typical homophobic slur, this is not a pet play story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:46:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29836920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathknightQ/pseuds/DeathknightQ
Summary: John has always been good with animals, and birds are no exception. The first part covers the Pilot through “Legacy,” the second takes place between “The High Road” and “Till Death.”
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 12
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**“Impose your will on your enemy. Look for their weak points.” – John Reese, “Wolf and Cub”**

_John was twelve when he met his first soul mate._

_Talbots’ Pets and Feed was Puyallup’s finest and only pet store. It carried supplies for everything from cattle to zebra finches, sold everything from baby chicks to rosy boas. It even sold puppies, but not from any puppy mill. John’s father bred his own, the finest gun-dog Golden Retrievers in Washington State… or at least that’s what the locals said. The bulk of John’s household chores took place at the shop. He came in every morning before school to make the salads for the herbivores and omnivores, feed the animals, and pick up any waste left behind the previous night. After school he came back to the shop to do whichever full cleans needed to be done that day that the employees hadn’t gotten to, and then went home to clean out the dog runs and exercise the dogs._

_The dogs used to be his mother’s job, but she’d been dead for over a year, almost two: black ice, oncoming traffic, and no one to blame._

_John was in the middle of scrubbing down the last of the breeding mice’s cage when he heard the screaming, shrill and avian. He heard his father talking to a male voice when the bird quieted. Then the bird started in again._

_John finished drying the cage and carefully transferred the mother mouse and her young back to their breeder. He closed the lid and left the back room, slipping quietly up the aisles to see what was going on._

_His father was talking to a tall man with a beard. The tall man was trying to sell the bird – a green-cheeked conure, very expensive – and John’s father was having none of it. It wasn’t a good business decision: no one in an area this rural would be able to afford a bird like that, and it was too loud to sell even if parrots were popular here. The tall man didn’t care._

_The tall man had set the cage on one of the dog food displays. John crept closer._

_The bird was beautiful: dark green wing feathers and a dark red tail topped with a bit of blue, bright black eyes rimmed in white and a black beak._

_He – at least, the tall man called it a he -- was also terrified, crouched low on the cage floor instead of on a perch, his feathers fluffed along every inch of his body. He was on the farthest edge of the cage away from the tall man, who reached over and slammed his hand on the cage bars with an imperious command for silence the bird was too terrified to obey -- even if it did understand the word._

_John doubted it._

_“If somebody hit my cage all the time, I’d scream too,” John whispered at the bird. He reached one finger toward the cage bars._

_It was over before even John saw it coming, a flutter of feathers like a little bird bomb, and John pulled his hand away bloody with a startled cry. The bite hurt, but John had been bitten by just about everything at least once before. He could take it._

_“Christ,” John’s father bellowed over the bird’s discontent, “Get that menace out of here, right now!”_

_John moved as fast as the bird had, clamping his hand over the handle of the cage._

_“I’ll take him if you’ll give him to me.”_

_“You cannot keep that thing,” his dad said firmly. John didn’t take his eyes off the tall man._

_“I have enough allowance left over to afford seed, and parrots eat veggies, too.” John took most of his allowance in the form of pet supplies for his menagerie. Keeping the bird would tank his plans of saving for a mountain bike – an actual boy’s bike instead of the old second-hand girl’s bike he used now – but he could always ask for the bike for Christmas. The tall man would probably kill the bird if someone didn’t take him now._

_Besides, it wasn’t the bird’s fault he’d bitten John. He was just afraid. John told his father so._

_“John,” his father said firmly, “you can’t keep taking home everything that bites you.”_

_John set his jaw stubbornly._

_“Watch me.”_

* * *

“And here I was thinking we were getting a little closer, Harold,” John said, leaving Harold Starling’s abandoned cubicle. 

Reese was disappointed. He’d gotten his first real hold on who his mysterious new handler was -- in less than a week, no less -- and Finch had taken it away not forty-eight hours after John had found it. But John was also deeply impressed: most people couldn’t walk away overnight and cold from an alias they’d held this long, from all their coworkers and the career they’d made.

It was something John could do, but he was trained for deep cover. He knew how to keep his cover identity’s emotions separate from his own thoughts.

Finch was either an extremely gifted amateur, or else a professional with skills equal to Reese. John wasn’t sure which he found more appealing.

The appeal was intense either way. 

“I told you, I’m a very private person,” Finch replied, dry and placid, as if this was something John should have expected. John felt the smile curve his mouth and his pulse pick up: that was a challenge.

“You need to trust someone at some point,” John replied evenly. It was going to be him, Reese decided. Finch just didn’t know it yet.

“Trust? That’s not something I come by very easily. I have my reasons.”

“Are you ever going to tell me those reasons?” John replied coyly. It didn’t matter. Reese would find them out anyway. 

“Don’t call me, Mr. Reese,” Finch said coldly, a thorough rebuff of everything spoken and unspoken. “I’ll call you.” He hung up.

John was still smiling. Competent, attractive, and a challenge: there was a good possibility John was in serious trouble, and not the kind that involved bullets.

* * *

_John started his war of attrition right away. He spent all of his bike-savings on a cage twice the size of the parakeet cage the tall man had kept the bird in. He set his new project up in the quietest corner of the warehouse with a heat lamp and renamed him King._

_After he finished with the dogs each day, John began doubling-back to the shop. He sat next to the cage with cotton balls stuffed in his ears to dull the noise. John only left the warehouse when King gave up on screaming, sitting on a perch in a silent lump of loathing._

_“That bird’ll never be anything but a biting, screaming monster. You should give up and get rid of it,” John’s father said, stacking the can cart while John worked on his math._

_John’s mouth thinned with now-familiar annoyance. The cotton dulled the sound but didn’t eliminate it, and his father knew it. He had to reply._

_But he could take his time removing his earplugs._

_“For you,” John said, refusing to look up from his homework. “If an animal knows there’s a point you’ll give up, he’ll out-stubborn you every time. Once King realizes his defeat is inevitable, he’ll come around.”_

_John’s father made the special sigh he made when he was making a show of being patient with his son. The audience for the show was itself the bulk of John’s annoyance: Beth. His father’s girlfriend. John wasn’t allowed to say the word aloud under any circumstances, but she was a bitch, and John hated her._

_“He’s a good boy, Alan,” Beth said, helping with the cans. “There are worse things to be than soft-hearted.”_

_John was furious._

_“Defending King won’t make me like you,” John said coldly. “You’re still not Mom.”_

_Beth’s face crumpled. She pressed her hand to her mouth and rushed from the room. John felt both guilty and viciously pleased._

_Alan was across the room as if it was on fire. The blow that followed made the left side of his face ache from jaw to temple. King upped the ante to shrieking. John’s eyes burned. He refused to cry in front of his father, or show anything that could look like remorse. Beth deserved it. So did his father._

_“You watch your mouth,” Alan said furiously. “Beth is going to be your mother someday, she’s the woman I love, and you’d better swallow the attitude and accept it. You’ve lost all your privileges for the month: no television, no comics, no friends at the house, and no going anywhere but here and home. Do you understand?”_

_“Yes, sir,” John said, making “sir” sound as bad as he could._

_Alan boxed his son’s ear for insolence and went to check on Beth._

_John sat back up, pulling his book and notebook off the floor. Privileges didn’t matter, he told himself over and over again. Beth wasn’t his mother, she never would be. John was no traitor. Eventually his father would realize John would never give up loving his mother. Even if his father had._

_John was so focused on his feud with his father that it wasn’t until he’d finished the exercises that he realized that it was actually quiet in the warehouse. It might have even been quiet for a while._

_John twisted to look up over his shoulder. King was sitting quietly at the far edge of the cage, tilting his head to look at John curiously._

_The side of his face was still sore, but John smiled anyway._

_“It’s a start, prettybird.”_

* * *

The most important thing John Reese had learned about Finch so far was that the man was born to run. His prints weren’t in any system Lionel had access to, he was damn hard to tail, he had more safe-houses than the US Marshals, and he steadfastly refused to give John any traction. Every overture was met with a rebuff, every interrogation trick met with a deflection. Reese hadn’t even managed to figure out what the man liked for breakfast, much less where he liked it.

Which was fine by John: Finch might be born to run, but Reese was built to hunt.

The first bit of cautionary trust was the hardest-won. John just needed a new line of attack.

In the meantime…

“Thank you,” John told him, because it was true and Finch deserved to hear it.

“I beg your pardon?”

“For giving me a job.” It was more than a job. That part John didn’t say.

Finch looked up, staring at him for a moment like he didn’t know how to reply. Then he picked up the menu and passed it to Reese.

“Try the Eggs Benedict, Mr. Reese,” Finch said gently. “I’ve had them—many times.”

Finch slid from his seat. Reese watched him go.

John smiled, a bright feeling filling his chest. The information that the diner was a place Finch frequented and that it was close enough to Finch’s primary residence for Finch to jealously guard the information wasn’t much. It wasn’t even something John hadn’t guessed on his own.

It was what the tidbit represented that had John riding the high. As of that moment, Finch had lost. John had his weakness now, and it was so simple he should have seen it sooner. No matter how dangerous the outside world was, the drive for companionship was powerful and relentless. Finch really was a bird, for all he was a human being.

The tidbit also represented that Finch was considering the possibility that maybe, just maybe -- despite whatever he was hiding and whatever he feared – that he didn’t have to be afraid of John. That John was different from everyone else who inflicted so much pain for such inadequate reasons.

Reese knew he wasn’t different, but he wanted to be. Finch had given him that chance: a chance to be “the boyscout” again instead of the killer; a chance to be one of “the good guys” on his way off this mortal coil. He could never truly reciprocate that gift, but if he could—

John couldn’t finish the thought. It was too much to contemplate, too much to hope for in case even the hoping jinxed it.

He had his first bit of trust. That was enough for now.

* * *

_The next step was pushing King’s boundaries. First, by putting his hand against the cage and drawing it away only when King calmed down -- he was a smart bird, he figured out stillness worked best in half the time it took him to learn the same about silence. The second step was the most painful: putting his hand inside the cage, leaving it there while King flew at him and bit him, and then withdrawing the hand when King stopped._

_The fact John spent four weeks with hands that looked like bandaged hamburger didn’t help things with his father. But Alan had put a ring on Layaway with the goal of proposing at Christmastime, so John didn’t think anything could help there. His father didn’t insist on King’s departure, though, which John supposed was something._

_He told King as much the first day the bird didn’t bite him. He left his hand in the cage for a full ten-count, then set down King’s breakfast. John moved on with his morning chores. He tried twice again, once when he first arrived at the shop from school and again right before leaving. He repeated the process each day, moving his hand slowly but steadily closer. Some days John moved too quickly and got bit, but at last he was able to brush his index finger against King’s tail-feathers, soft and strong. King didn’t move._

_John immediately offered a reward, a half-chunk of peanut. King eyed the food warily._

_John waited, watching the conure waver with indecision. King wanted the treat. John hadn’t hurt him so far, and birds hated to be alone – powerful pressures against the fear the tall man had instilled._

_“I’m not him, you know,” John told King softly. King edged slowly forward. “I’d never hurt you, prettybird.”_

_King was seriously considering the possibility, sliding along the cage bottom._

_“Come on, prettybird, you know you want it.”_

_King snatched the treat out of John’s fingers and scrambled with it to the opposite edge of the cage. He watched John warily while he ate. John offered a second treat with the same results._

_Step three took the longest: taking the realization that all the snappishness in the world wouldn’t drive John away, and then building trust upon that foundation. Hand-feeding was the cornerstone, with John talking softly to King all the while. Sometimes he talked about school, mostly his father, and sometimes how to care for the other animals in the shop. It didn’t really matter, it was the calm tone of voice and repeated sound that was important._

_Once King stopped running away to eat the treat, John began putting his other hand flat against the cage bottom between King and the treat. When King walked around the hand, John pulled the treat away. First King tried leaning over the hand, his breast feathers soft against the back of John’s hand. John was patient, and widened the game to include a spare perch. When King stepped up on the perch or John’s hand, John said “step up” and gave him the treat._

_When King began stepping up on command, John introduced him to “Out” by pulling the perch slowly out the cage door._

_Even with clipped wings, birds weren’t bred to life in a cage. “Out” was a truly magnificent thing. John got full credit. King ruffled his wings and looked about eagerly. John moved the perch to his service cart and set it down._

_“Step down.” Another treat for compliance._

_“This is the cart,” John told King solemnly, “it’s like a jungle gym.”_

_”Cart” was as much of an instant hit as “Out.” King immediately began climbing the plastic honeycomb walls, pecking at the cage keys and beaking the salads. John wheeled his cart and his cargo out to the floor. There were no customers yet, not this early. It was just John. His father wouldn’t be in until shortly before opening._

_John didn’t mind. He wasn’t a baby._

_He was explaining the finer points of how unfair it was he was grounded again when Peter Petrelli had clearly started the fight by calling Nate Morrison a “fag” and throwing his books on the ground, when Beth walked up to his cart._

_“What do you want?” John asked bluntly, on the knife-edge of polite._

_“To talk. Just us, without your father,” Beth said, resting her hands on the shelf instead of the service cart. She knew better than to give King anything less than respectful distance._

_John looked at her suspiciously._

_“Why?”_

_“Because we need to talk.”_

_“I don’t have anything to say to you.”_

_Beth shrugged. “I’ve seen pictures of Laura. You look like her, you know.”_

_It wasn’t anything people hadn’t told him before, but hearing it still stung in places not yet healed over. He looked like his mother, more so with every passing year as his baby fat melted away, and she wasn’t alive to see that she’d left more behind in him than his dark blue eyes. It made his throat hurt. He wouldn’t give Beth the satisfaction. John turned back to his chores._

_“John,” Beth continued, “I’m not trying to be your mother. I wouldn’t even want to try. What a mother and a son have is special, unique, and lasts forever even when the mother is gone. I know you’re trying to protect that by keeping me at a distance. That’s how you’re grieving and I understand. I was worse than your bird about biting everyone and everything when my father died.”_

_John’s hands jerked. He wasn’t expecting that._

_“But not everyone grieves the same way or reacts the same way, and you’ve got to cut your father some slack.” John opened his mouth to fire back that John didn’t see any reason to cut his father slack when he wasn’t getting any himself, but Beth kept on without pausing, “just because he loves me doesn’t mean he’s stopped loving your mother, or that he doesn’t miss her, or that he’s trying to replace her. If he was trying to get rid of her memory, he’d ship you off to military school and forget about it.”_

_John closed his mouth. Oh._

_“Alan is happy with me. He wants you to be happy, too. If you give him some space and let him breathe, he’ll back off, but fighting him on everything all the time like this—You’re just going to end up hating each other. Is that really what you want?”_

_John tried to talk, but couldn’t get the words past the way his throat had closed up. He shook his head. He looked down to hide that his eyes were wet._

_“Good. Then let’s make a deal. If you need someone to do a mother’s job, I’m available. If not, then let’s at least be cordial. Deal?”_

_“Deal,” John whispered._

_“Good.” Beth nodded. “To seal it, I brought you a present. They do that in the East, you know, to seal business deals.” She handed him a book._

_The cover was dark red with gold lettering: The Art of War._

_“Thank you.”_

_Beth left. John held the book out to King._

_“What do you think?”_

_King carefully tasted the paper, then stepped up on the book. He slid slowly down the spine like a slide, coming to rest on John’s hand. King tilted his head almost completely sideways and began beaking the paper jacket, looking for enough purchase to start shredding it._

_High praise from a conure._

_King’s small body was warm and soft on John’s skin._

* * *

John hadn’t been completely confident gifts of food and tea combined with being constantly underfoot would work: he had explained the slow way to gain an asset’s trust on his first day with Finch. But either Finch hadn’t been paying attention or he had naively supposed he was immune, because after the initial biting phase, Finch had warmed. 

Frosty rebuffs of John’s flirtation (and it was, Reese was man enough to admit it) had dissolved into wry teasing and a dry straight-man act. Imperious reminders of rank had melted into soft confessions -- rare, but still present. The voice in his ear had ceased to be clipped and businesslike, but was now interspersed with alarmed cries of “Mr. Reese!” when the gunfire started and relieved sighs of “oh, thank God” when Reese was unharmed (or as unharmed as could be reasonably expected).

More telling still were the presents: at first, “replacement” suits and shirts (which if they were replacements, then Harold was really bad at math because John had almost four times as many now as when he’d started out). There was also Harold picking up the tab every time they went out and a coffeepot for the staffroom (with ridiculously expensive Kona coffee to go in it) when Finch didn’t drink coffee. 

And there was the money itself. Finch paid Reese industry-standard for a hired assassin on top of his habit for buying John anything he thought Reese might need. John paid for the food he ate, toiletries, rent on his rotating roster of cheap motels, and the weaponry he couldn’t steal -- and that was it. John had never had this much disposable income in his life. 

John had always believed in packing light, weapons stashes non-withstanding, and he was still a blue-collar enlisted man at heart. Reese had no idea what he was supposed to do with that kind of money, so he gave it away to whomever he found who needed it. Yet Finch kept offering him a raise, despite the fact John would gladly do the job for free. That was certainly a sign of affection.

Yes, Finch had been thawed so thoroughly that the sangfroid man who blithely declared they’d probably both wind up really dead this time had been completely erased, replaced by a frantic man who had rushed headlong into the clutches of the very people he was most likely running from to save John’s life.

John had apparently “cultivated a relationship” right into cultivating himself, because in that moment he hadn’t wanted Finch to risk it. He’d heard himself tell Finch to stay away as the blood had pounded in his ears and the GSWs had burned in his belly and thigh. Reese hadn’t come close to atoning for everything he’d done, for everyone he’d failed, but that wasn’t the fault of the second chance Finch had given him. It was his own. 

The urge for his last words to be gratitude – something other than the anger, fear, and intimidation that were the norm for the killer he’d become – had been overwhelming. John had given in, but Finch hadn’t wanted any part of it.

He had wanted Reese to live, even if John had been ambivalent. (He didn’t deserve to live, so he didn’t have the right to cry foul at his own death.)

Worse than the thought of bleeding out alone on the floor of the parking garage had been the idea of what Snow would have done if he’d gotten hold of Finch. John remembered what he used to do to men like Harold: accomplices to targets, people whose only use lay in the information they contained. 

Reese had refused to go back and had been shot because of it, because unlike Elias – who for all his criminality knew something of loyalty and principle, even if they weren’t principles John would ever ascribe to -- men like Snow did not take “not for sale” for an answer.

Finch had come for him, had somehow convinced Carter to let them go, and then paid a ridiculous sum to convince a surgeon to do what Finch could not.

The CIA had instilled in him that no one was coming, that in the end everyone died alone.

Finch had come for him, twice now. Once when Snow had been the threat, and once before when the threat had been John’s own hands, his own despair.

Afterward, when John was lucid and mobile, they didn’t talk about what John had said or why he’d said it. They didn’t talk about how Finch took care of him, changing bandages between the doctor’s examinations, even though Finch had had to stop half-way to throw up in the wastebasket each time.

They didn’t talk about it, but they’d also apparently reverted back to square one. John was furious: mysterious errands, refusals to explain, and an icy wall of “you have to understand, Mr. Reese, there are things I can’t tell you,” -- complete with an artful crack of the voice on “can’t.”

As if it was “can’t,” and not “won’t.” 

Reese had gotten shot because he wouldn’t be CIA anymore. Wouldn’t betray Finch. Not ever. Not for any price. 

Reese sent Fusco in a flash of anger, in a heady moment of being sick of Finch’s idiosyncrasies. John wanted answers. He was going to get them. The knowledge that he’d been right about IFT being significant wasn’t enough.

When Fusco put the slim manila folder in his hands and explained that “Uncle Harold” wasn’t Finch or Starling but Wren, John had his answer.

Harold had been using aliases since 1976 – for thirty-six years. Being paranoid enough or controlling enough to do that for no real reason… both involved levels of mental illness that precluded functioning on the level Finch did. Un-medicated, he would have deteriorated by now to the point of living an off-the-grid existence in Montana somewhere. Medicated, that long on the type of psychiatric drugs he’d need would have dulled his mental functions to well below the level Finch currently displayed. And even if he’d only recently begun treatment there would be signs: facial tics, muscle spasms, or irregularities in pupil dilation Finch simply didn’t have. Finch didn’t have any of the signs of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, either.

Reese was no psychologist and didn’t pretend to be, but he was confident he could rule out crazy.

Which meant Finch had been living under cover for thirty-six years for a reason. It would have to be a Hell of a reason. Enough of a reason for him to burn the Starling alias at the slightest hint it would lead the then-not-trusted Reese to him. Which it would have, eventually, if Starling had kept hanging around the place dropping unintentional clues: Starling to Nathan Ingram, from Ingram to Will, and from Will to Wren. Exactly where Reese was now, but months ago when he hadn’t known Harold as well.

“Only the paranoid survive,” John murmured, looking through the files. Fusco had found Wren’s primary physician. With that and Stills’s badge, Reese was fairly confident he could get his hands on Wren/Finch’s medical records. John already had a guess about what he’d find.

Was Finch not telling Reese everything because Harold thought Reese’s job was to protect the Numbers, not Finch, and suspected Reese would be distracted by a personal threat to his employer? Finch would be right. Kara had hammered into his head over and over again that an agent had to protect his vulnerable spots like they were national secrets, and John knew Finch was where he could be both crippled and controlled. 

Or was Finch not telling in an attempt to protect Reese from whatever it was, if only because Harold was ashamed of it? John hoped it was shame. Finch had thrown them at Elias, HR, the CIA, the FBI, and the legitimate police, confident in their ability to stalemate even if they couldn’t win outright. If Finch didn’t think he and Reese could beat this thing, that he needed to shield Reese from it…

John didn’t like it. Not one bit.

He wasn’t angry with Finch anymore – whichever of the options were Finch’s motivations, it was what John would do in Finch’s place – but he sure as Hell was going to keep digging.


	2. Chapter 2

**“Even the blackest heart still beats.” – Ulrich Kohl**

They had put the latest Number away safe in a cab and were on their way to the car discussing dinner options when John’s phone rang.

“That last person you helped called the FBI,” Carter said, her voice low and urgent. “Donnelly’s got everybody on their way. You better get out of there fast.”

It was three-thirty on a Friday afternoon. The call had been a tipline response, routed straight to the FBI. Not only had Carter not had the chance to stall or deflect, but Donnelly had most likely already been in motion when he’d summoned the detective.

For a half-second, John was paralyzed, torn by the equal urgencies of getting Finch away from the FBI’s grasping hands and personally putting their last Number back in mortal danger.

Then the haze of anger cleared. Reese was in motion. He grabbed Finch’s upper arm and hauled him away from the car. Rush hour was almost upon the city: the car would be a trap, especially because the Number had seen it. Not for the first time, Reese was glad he had the foresight to steal his cars and outfit every one of Finch’s that he could find with stolen plates and VINs.

They needed to be mobile: that truth, more than any other, hammered in his chest with more insistence than normal. They needed to be invisible. John’s heart was racing. There was one thing that was both, but Finch—Reese had a solution the instant he presented the problem to himself.

“Go in there,” Reese pointed to the second-hand store across the street. “Buy the most ragged clothes you can find, close to our sizes but not quite right, and the most beaten-up book on the shelves. Shoes, too. Pay cash, and meet me behind the store.”

Finch’s eyes were even larger than normal, his mouth a thin line because even if the CIA and enemies unknown didn’t snatch them both from the FBI’s hot little hands, there was a good chance that Root was keeping tabs on Donnelly. If she knew where Finch was and that Reese was out of picture—

 _Mine_ and _no_ were equal parts of Reese’s racing heartbeat. 

He headed into the mom-and-pop grocery store, little more than a gas-and-grub, and paid in cash for a bottle of cheap vodka, a bottle of wine, and a bottle of Jack. Reese forced himself to be patient and charming, just a guy getting home from work and picking up a little something. He walked slowly away from the shop, and bolted as soon as he was out of sight of the cashier.

Reese knew this territory from before he’d taken up with Joan’s group. His information was going to be a little outdated, but it was better than going in blind.

Harold was behind the second-hand shop, his purchases in plastic bags recycled from other stores.

John cracked open the vodka and poured it on the ground.

“Make mud,” Reese instructed, and Finch obeyed while John took his pocket knife to the clothes to distress them further. Reese smeared and smudged the clothes with the vodka-mud, tearing here and sopping them there.

He handed Harold’s half of the reeking mess to Finch and then pulled him between the dumpster and the building.

“Change,” Reese ordered and began stripping off his suit.

Predictably, Finch balked.

“We need not to be seen, and a five-thousand dollar suit doesn’t exactly blend in. Change your clothes.” John tilted his mouth in a teasing smile to mask the sincere promise. “I won’t peek.” This wasn’t the time for that kind of distraction.

Finch started to move, and John turned his back.

John doctored their skin with more of the mud, carefully and subtle: like they were trying to stay clean but didn’t quite have the tools, rather than the stereotypical wallow in filth. He rolled up their old suits and shoes in one of the recycled plastic bags and tossed them in the nearby donation slot. He smashed their phones and slid them beneath the dumpster. 

“Glasses,” Reese ordered. Finch handed them over, and Reese broke one of the lenses with the butt of his knife and gave them back, ignoring Finch’s indignant noise. He handed Finch the book. “Clutch this to your chest like it’s your Precious and no matter what happens, don’t say a word to anyone. Hide behind me if anyone talks to you. Not a word, understand?”

Finch nodded. Reese felt his lips quirk, and something tight unwound a little in his chest. This might actually work.

Terrible plans were always the best.

Reese kept one hand on the small of Finch’s back as he led him carefully down the street, eyes scanning for choice spots and signs the territory was occupied. His pulse was racing, but John kept his walk shambling and casual. Finch looked tense and wary and completely mad, his shoulders hunched and hugging his battered book. 

He found what he needed two blocks away, tucked between the dumpsters behind a taco shop and a Laundromat.

“Hey,” John said, approaching the homeless man and his cart. He held out the two brown bags containing the wine and whiskey in one hand. “One for two blankets, one to let us crash here tonight.” He didn’t ask for a name, and didn’t offer one.

Reese could feel Finch’s tension through his palm, but Finch didn’t speak. Which was good: one sentence of Finch’s clipped diction and he’d be marked as an outsider.

“Where’s your place?” the man asked suspiciously.

“Gentrified,” Reese said, inventing a backstory out of a newsbyte. “Lookin’ for a new one. I’m not asking to be neighbors, just a place to sleep so we can keep looking tomorrow.”

“Fine,” his negotiating partner said, grabbing the blankets with one hand and the whiskey with the other. Reese took the blankets and handed over the wine curled in his other fingers. “Stay out of the shop’s garbage. It’ll get you sick sure as Hell. Don’t know why the place ain’t been closed down.”

There were words on the tip of Finch’s tongue, John could feel it, but Harold held his peace. Finch let himself be led to the second dumpster. The fabric-softener and laundry smell was strong, but the air from the vent would help keep them warm, at least until the Laundromat closed. John sat down on the concrete and made a show of helping Finch down. Harold’s mouth thinned, but he obediently played up his stiffness.

“Don’t panic,” Reese whispered, and drew Finch against his side. He draped an arm over Harold’s narrower shoulders and arranged their blankets. Finch obediently leaned his shoulder into John’s ribs, but held his hips rigidly to the side even though the pose had to put a greater strain on his spine. John didn’t have time for offense, rejection, or wistfulness, so he ignored them all.

“Mr. Reese,” Finch whispered back, “what are we doing?”

“Hiding,” Reese said simply.

“We’re sitting in an alley in broad daylight. Forgive me if my understanding of the word is flawed.”

Figured.

“Being homeless is being invisible, even to your Machine. As long as we don’t talk to anyone ‘normal,’ the local PD won’t care. The FBI is looking for ex-Special Forces in a suit. They won’t look twice at a pair of winos.” Donnelly would, he knew what Carter knew, but the chances of him personally running across them were slim. Reese’s usual tactic was to run, not hide, and so Donnelly would be focused on the outer edges of the grid. The center would be left to searchers.

“But won’t the fact there’s two of us be suspicious?”

“Homeless people are people, Finch,” Reese said. They loved the same as anyone else. The two of them sat quietly for a few moments. John could hear Finch breathing, faster than John but gradually slowing down to normal.

“No one is invisible to the Machine, Mr. Reese,” Harold finally whispered.

“Most security cameras are monitored by someone,” Reese murmured. “Homeless people aren’t welcome anywhere but shelters and soup kitchens: we’ve got to be places people avoid. Those are a low-priority for government cameras. No phone, no cell most of the time. No internet or email unless we can borrow from a friend.” You needed proof of address for a library card; a PO box wouldn’t do. “Outside the city there are huge areas with no cameras at all, places even Google only checks on every few months.”

Finch’s shoulders were tight, his eyes still lowered. His precious, trusted Machine had limitations he hadn’t foreseen. Couldn’t, because while he’d been at the bottom of society at one time, at least Reese got that impression, he’d never been rejected from it entirely: a commodity, yes, but never truly anonymous.

“If--” Finch started to whisper.

“People plan bum-burnings every day, Finch,” Reese replied, “either as a group activity or bragging about the next time if they do it alone. The Machine never sends me.” Not even to the perpetrators.

“I’m sorry,” Finch whispered, looking down. Reese knew Finch forgot Reese had been homeless for a while, but John didn’t. He never would.

“There’s a successful murder a day in New York,” Reese said. There was no way to know how many other attempts, beyond the ones Reese and Finch foiled. “Only two of us. It’s got to triage somehow.”

“I didn’t mean for it to exclude an entire class,” Harold whispered, distressed.

“Of course,” Reese replied. There was no need to be cruel about the fact Finch’s brainchild had inherited prejudices Finch hadn’t realized he had. John wasn’t even angry. People outside the community, who weren’t personally connected somehow, forgot all the time. Like having his own government try to drop a bomb on him in Ordos, or Kara shooting him: it was what it was. So John let it go.

He had better things to cling to now.

“I’m sorry,” Harold whispered again. 

They were so alike, trying to do the right thing and never quite getting it right. John knew he’d gotten it a Hell of a lot more wrong – he’d been a killer and a torturer – but Finch would never tolerate him saying it aloud. He insisted that the fact it had been the government behind the gun and that the citizenry’s interests being protected had been his motive made Reese somehow different from Riley, the Irish mob-enforcer. As if a predator wasn’t a predator if the pups he brought the kill home to were cute and fluffy.

The only thing they didn’t get wrong was this, the Man in the Suit: a man who didn’t really exist, the conglomeration of Finch and John who had become an urban legend. John believed in the Man in the Suit, even with the mistakes. One last chance for both of them to get it right before their borrowed time ran out.

And it was good. John had always “worn the pants” with Jessica: she’d been forever looking for him to lead, even to the point of not wanting to wait if John didn’t ask. With Kara he’d always been at the bottom: the less-experienced, less-dedicated, less-jaded operative who needed to buckle down and take his orders like a good killing machine. 

Finch was his partner, pulling shoulder-to-shoulder: the burdens and privileges of order-giving and order-taking traded back and forth as needed. Most of the time there weren’t even orders, just choices they made together. It was good to be known, too, better than he’d ever imagined. Jessica had known only his lights. It was part of what made her so special, the living embodiment of sunshine: seeing only the best in people, even monsters like John and Peter. Kara had only been interested in his darks, the dirty and the ruthless. Finch knew both, and refused to leave anyway.

That was a treasure, and one John had been forced to admit he had no interest in sharing with anyone, or relinquishing under any circumstances. Finch – with his secrets, his resources, his machine, his mission, and all his myriad eccentricities – was John’s, all John’s, and everyone else had better keep their distance.

Though the fact Finch had been willing and eerily able to flirt with Tara and Maxine, that he’d been engaged to Grace, combined with the fact he wouldn’t give Reese the time of day… It was making John start to wonder if he hadn’t gotten it wrong when he’d pegged Finch as bi. 

Finch was leaning into his touch.

The sensory input stopped his train of thought cold. It had only been seconds, but Finch was not leaning against John’s ribs to cement their cover. He was leaning into the fingers caressing his arm, gently, like he was trying to escape notice and encourage more at the same time.

 _Feeling a little touch-starved, Harold?_ John’s pulse jumped and his skin felt hot. He was still aware of their cover, of the mission, but he was also painfully aware of the weakness Finch had just presented him. And not only a weakness, but one that was fair game – unlike intoxication.

Reese could feel the change in the neighborhood’s energy, the stutter-stop of its pulse. The police had arrived and been noticed. The urgency only made everything seem more urgent.

Any honest explanation was bound to run headlong into questions this wasn’t the time or the place for John to answer, or into Harold’s pride: John had learned his third day that any attempt to accommodate Finch’s injuries got you nothing but a face-full of pissed billionaire. But there was a logical reason to do what John wanted to do and Finch was clearly willing to go along with Reese relatively unquestioning for the time being, so—

“Come on,” John said in a normal voice, “scoot.” He moved the blankets and pushed lightly on Finch, guiding Finch until Harold was sitting between John’s knees, his back resting lightly against Reese’s chest. Reese settled the blankets over them both. “The blankets will hide it if you tense up when the police come by. Just act like you’re lost in your own world, and let me do the talking.”

Harold nodded, clutching his book tighter under the blanket. He didn’t smell good, the alcohol and the blankets covered everything up too well for that, but John still liked it. John was good at quelling inconvenient biological urges, and Reese used that skill to silence the parts of his body a little too interested in the fact he need only rock his hips forward an inch or two to touch Finch’s ass. John couldn’t and didn’t try to ignore how warm and relatively soft Harold’s body was. His cover wouldn’t.

They waited quietly for a few breaths, and then—

“I am prejudiced, Mr. Reese, and I apologize. I surmise you’ve guessed already, but-- The Machine selected you to be my partner.” Reese blinked. He had suspected: Finch had started to say “when we found you” during his confession that the Numbers had been an unbearable burden alone, and there were only so many options of who the other half of that “we” could be. But hearing Finch admit it was startling. Finch didn’t usually admit things where his brain-child was concerned.

Now if he’d just face up to the fact the damn thing had cock-blocked the Hell out of John with Zoe, twice now. Harold insisted it wasn’t possible, but John knew.

“The reason—” Finch continued, “the reason I watched for so long is that I couldn’t imagine why. But my choices weren’t working, the list was piling up, and—I capitulated. Who knew we’d be so evenly matched, eventually.”

Harold was half leaned against him, half tensely away, like he couldn’t decide how much physical contact he wanted. Talking, but while facing away from John, avoiding eye contact. Like he couldn’t decide how much emotional contact he wanted, either.

The timing was beyond terrible, but John might not get another opportunity. Not with Harold sober, anyway. 

“It was easier to relax when the score was even,” John said evenly.

“It is not,” Finch immediately protested, and John smiled to himself. He was getting better at pushing Finch’s buttons.

“It is. I know exactly everything about you, Finch.”

Finch was a silent bundle of tension against John’s chest, running the calculations in his head, weighing John’s formidable skills against Finch’s considerable experience and deciding how likely it was Reese’s certainty wasn’t faked.

The police weren’t in sight yet. They had time. A lot of time, if John was right.

He usually was. So he offered, “How about a bet to find out?”

“I’m concerned about the timing, Mr. Reese, but I am listening.”

“I’ll tell you something I know about you. If I’m right, you answer one of my questions. If I’m wrong, you can ask me about something you don’t know.” Harold knew the facts in John’s files. There were a lot of truths that weren’t written there. That Harold had promised never to lie to him hung unspoken between them.

Finch was still tense: the desire to know what John knew warring with the desire not to give up even more, the need for companionship and to run away clamoring in equal measure.

 _Come on, prettybird,_ John thought, _you know you want it._

“All right, if you think it’s safe.”

“It’s safe,” John said, because it was true. They were as close to invisible as it was possible to be. Even their landlord was ignoring them, drinking deeply of the rent. “You’re from the Midwest, Iowa most likely.” It was in his vowels, and his consonants when he was under stress. Finch apparently knew it, because he relaxed a bit and nodded. 

“What’s your favorite color?” Reese asked. Finch wore so many it was impossible to keep track.

“Brown.”

It was not a common answer. Reese was surprised and somehow impressed. It also suited Finch: comfortable and non-descript, even when arranged in dapper patterns like those worn by society finches or chickadees. Like black, it was also John’s favorite color on Harold.

“You were adopted,” John said. Foster kid, maybe, but he definitely remembered being adopted. That was written all over Finch, bone-deep and uneraseable, in everything from his tastes to his politics to his emotional responses. Subtle, but if you know what to look for, always present and impossible to miss.

Apparently Finch didn’t know that, because he straightened with a barely-soft-enough and incredulous, “ _How_ the _Hell_ \--”

John quickly pulled him back down and the dirty blankets back up.

“Ah-ah. That can be your question if I get one wrong,” Reese whispered back, not even trying to pretend not to be smug. “Am I wrong?” Harold was silent, and shook his head. It wasn’t like he could sell a lie now even if he wanted to.

“How old were you when you lost your virginity?”

“Really, Mr. Reese?”

“My questions.”

“Twenty-one.”

A late bloomer, or it just took someone that long to notice what Finch had to offer. Reese wasn’t surprised. A little sad… perhaps.

Reese tucked Finch a little closer, giving the police car slowly driving by a predictably wary look. The car, just as predictably, kept driving.

“I promise never to doubt your abilities again, Mr. Reese,” Finch whispered, relieved enough he forgot to hold part of himself rigidly separate from Reese’s body.

Reese smirked, even as his body flushed in response.

“I know you were on the run before you started the Machine,” Reese said softly in Finch’s ear, and felt him tense right back up. “You’ve been looking over your shoulder so long you’ve forgotten how to relax. To keep people from relying on you so when you leave they won’t be crippled. Not to give people anything you can’t afford for them to give away.” John was no exception: if all else failed, there was Warren to fall back on, the one alias he had that wasn’t tied to any Harold. It had been John’s choice to make that his cover if arrested. Harold wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to leave any devastation behind. 

He also knew that Finch had forgotten what it was like not to look at everyone knowing that anyone was capable of anything at any time, and to constantly make plans for what you’d do if they did. It was a trait John shared, and one he didn’t want to discourage. As far as John was concerned, Finch could stand to be a little _more_ mercenary, not less.

“I don’t believe I like this game anymore,” Finch whispered.

“Only because you’re losing,” Reese replied. “You can’t tell me what it is, I understand.” He’d usually been the one keeping confidentiality, not the one having to accept it. Reese had more empathy for Jessica’s frustration and exasperation during his Ranger days than he’d ever had before. “At least tell me this: are you protecting me from who you’re running from, or are you afraid I’ll never forgive you if I find out?”

Harold was rigid against his chest. For a moment Reese honestly thought Finch wasn’t going to answer.

“Both and neither,” Finch finally said, upholding his end of the bargain. “Our friend is starting to move.”

Night was approaching, the dimness creeping out from the corners as the sunlight faded. Their landlord was doubtless headed to one of the “safe” areas, places where street-dwellers could light fires in barrels to warm themselves and streetwalkers could ply their trade without undue harassment. 

“That’s our cue,” Reese said. Unless it had shifted, Reese remembered the safe area for this neighborhood. It was a warren of alleys and fire escapes, plenty of places to run or to hide. He made a show of helping Finch up. Reese hoped Finch was just exaggerating his limp slightly for effect, though that long sitting on cement it was possible he was really that uncomfortable. John draped one of the blankets around Finch’s shoulders before draping the second over his own coat.

“What if they start circulating photos?”

John kept his hand on the small of Finch’s back. 

“The police circulating the photos are the same police who chase them away for saying so much as ‘hello’ to ‘decent, law-abiding folk,’” John said. “They won’t help.”

Harold wrapped his arm around his book and looked down, keeping so close to John their shoulders brushed. Reese squared his shoulders, protective and possessive. They found a place near enough to the fire to be warm, but not so close as to be taking a spot claimed by someone with seniority.

They got called on being new almost immediately, by an older man who held the best spot, immediately next to the fire and upwind from the smoke.

“Used to camp out in that old theater on Sutter,” John said gruffly, “till it got bought. Cops kicked us out. We’re not lookin’ to stay, just passin’ through.”

“What about him?” The man nodded to Finch, who dutifully ducked behind Reese.

“He don’t talk much,” John said. He pulled up his sleeves, showing the bruises from the fight he’d had protecting the very Number who’d put them in this mess, and the older bruises from the day before. “Even on a good day. Today wasn’t a good day.”

The older man nodded. They’d passed muster: new and at the bottom of the hierarchy, but still part of the club.

They waited quietly, part of the milling crowd, for about half an hour. Reese was just starting to hope the roadblocks were about to clear when the police came through, showing photographs. One of the men with the photographs was obviously FBI. Reese huffed a sigh. It looked like Donnelly was going to be stubborn. Well, fine: there was more than one way past a roadblock.

“You seen this guy?” the smaller of the cops demanded, pushing a grainy and barely-identifiable photo into John’s face.

“Can’t say as I have, officer,” Reese said, challenging and complacent all at once. It was the same tone he’d taken with Carter when they’d first met. As a homeless person, he’d used it with all cops.

“What about you?”

Finch obediently shuffled behind Reese.

“Him ‘neither,” Reese said, stiffening.

“Yeah?” the officer said, trying to move around Reese. “How about he tells me that himself, huh? Hey, buddy, what about you?”

John stepped back between them, leaning forward, his posture and voice even more challenging and dominant.

“Leave him alone.”

“Get outta my way,” the police officer said, unwilling to be told off by a hobo. He put his hand on Reese’s shoulder and shoved. “You heard me, Glasses, you seen this guy?”

Finch backed hurriedly out of the way, still obeying Reese’s injunction for silence, as Reese shoved his way back between the cop and his partner.

“I said leave him alone!”

Reese’s earlier story, complete with bruises, and Finch’s short stature had garnered them both a measure of sympathy. That sympathy combined with the general antipathy towards the police had the natives standing in stalwart hostility instead of scattering. Sometimes people got tired of being pushed around. Reese was counting on it.

“Look, how about I take you and your buddy downtown for a bit, huh?” The officer said, glaring, holding the weight of his authority like a threat over Reese’s head.

The FBI agent had noticed the altercation. 

“Hey, what’s going on here?”

“Or maybe just your buddy,” the officer continued. “Maybe he’s a bit more talkative when you’re not--”

Reese grabbed the officer and shoved, slamming him ungracefully into the FBI agent and toppling them both into the fire barrel. Fire and bystanders went everywhere, jostling into police officers all-to-willing to take the snub personally. John egged the chaos on, throwing punches and pulling people into the line of fire, providing plenty of conclusions for angry people to jump to.

Harold helped as best he could, wielding his book two-handed.

“Come on,” Reese murmured, grabbing Finch by his upper arm and pulling him along. The dust-up was bound to end the way all police-versus-street-dwellers ended: in the back of a paddy wagon. They had to make it look like they were at least trying to get away in the general scatter.

They didn’t.

“I sincerely hope this is part of your plan,” Finch whispered sharply as John was crowded next to him on the bench.

“Yes,” John whispered back as more people were crowded in. The police weren’t even bothering to cuff them to the floor. 

The paddy-wagon drove right through the police roadblocks.

Reese waited several blocks before telling the other occupants to move as far to the back as possible. The homeless didn’t know what exactly the black canister Reese produced from hiding was, but they all made a collective guess about the level of Reese’s sanity and obeyed promptly.

Harold covered his ears and closed his eyes. 

The flash-bang went off and the paddy-wagon swerved twice before slamming to a stop. His ears still ringing, Reese drew up his arms and waited.

The back door opened. The officer’s mouth was moving. Reese punched him double-handed and stole his gun. He shot the driving-officer twice in the vest as he exited the van, and then slid along the van to kick him unconscious. He took the officer’s keys and unlocked his cuffs. Sloppy, but then they’d thought they were carrying a bunch of belligerent hobos, not the Man in the Suit.

Donnelly was going to have a towering fit, and take it all out on the two cops’ careers. Too bad.

Reese uncuffed Finch first, then tossed the key to the old man they’d spoken to by the fire. While the homeless people sorted out letting themselves out of custody, Reese pulled Finch away.

If Finch complained, Reese couldn’t hear it.

Reese stole the nearest old sedan. People really needed to learn to fork over the extra for an alarm. Or not, because it was always convenient when Reese was in a hurry.

Reese took a slightly circuitous route to see if they were being pursued and to keep them clear of Donnelly’s roadblocks, then turned to head towards his loft.

“You can turn left up here, Mr. Reese,” Finch said. 

“We need to lose the homeless look. You can fit in my clothes easier than I can fit in yours, Finch,” Reese said. Donnelly would be looking for it now.

“Immaterial, Mr. Reese,” Finch said. “I keep clothes your size in all of my safehouses.”

“Of course,” Reese said thinly, because he really should have expected it after a year of working with Finch’s plans on top of plans, “but your neighbors are bound to call the cops if two homeless people are wandering around.” No one would look twice at two more hobos in the park. “We’ll shower and change at my place, then I’ll take you wherever you want to go.” Or Finch could call Frick or Frack, which he probably would. Reese still didn’t know where Finch’s “home” was: just a string of addresses that Finch lived in just enough to keep them from looking vacant. Crash pads belonging to aliases, outfitted with security systems and lights on timers.

John regretted that he’d wasted a question on Finch’s virginity. The impulse to ruffle Finch’s feathers had been worth it in the moment, and he really hadn’t wanted the bet to be threatening, but—

The unanswered questions and Finch’s skittishness were what they were, Reese reminded himself. They had nothing to do with John, and John couldn’t fix them.

“Of course, Mr. Reese,” Finch assented. 

John ditched the car on the opposite end of the neighborhood. They cut through the alleys and the park next to Reese’s loft. John had kept his key along with the flash-bang. He let them both inside, offering Finch first shower. He dug through his drawer for clothes. Sweats and a tee weren’t Finch’s usual style, but they were the only things Reese had that were stretchy and could be tightened enough to fit easily.

“Thank you, Mr. Reese,” Finch said quietly, and limped to the bathroom. The dried mud itched, so John washed his face, arms, and neck in the sink. He stripped off most of the hobo disguise and tossed it in the laundry hamper. Waste not. The water was still running, so he threw a couple of veggie burgers on the stove-top grill – neither he nor Finch could eat like twenty year-olds anymore, and the Morning Star ones were pretty good – and he put a pot of water on to boil for Finch’s tea. John tossed together a salad with artichoke hearts and feta to go with it. He still had some of Finch’s ridiculously expensive frilly vinaigrette dressing to go on it.

Frick or Frack would have taken care of Bear. There was no way Donnelly could follow them here. There was no reason to be restless, but energy crawled through John’s nerves like electric shock. Once he saw Finch off, he’d go for a run or do some pushups, maybe head to the 24-hour gym and lift weights—

Finch stepped out of the bathroom. His hair was still wet, lying oddly flat. He looked vulnerable without his three-piece suit. John’s clothes were too loose in some places – the collar, in particular, dipped indecently low – and too tight in others. The legs were bunched around Finch’s ankles ridiculously. His bare forearms were distracting, the hollow between his collar bones, his rounded belly and thighs— A body promising warmth and soft comfort, for John to press his hard and battle-scarred body against—

“You didn’t have to make dinner, John,” Finch said softly. Finch’s eyes were lowered, and he kept moving his arms like he didn’t know what to do with them. 

Finch’s clothes were his armor, creating an impression of competence and trustworthiness. They were also a distraction. Bold frames to distract from his eyes, bright colors that clashed with his skin tone to draw the eye away from his face, expensive cuts and cloth to draw the focus away from the body the clothes covered. And cover they did: two too many layers, skin hidden from ankle to wrist to neck. Even in private, Harold didn’t want his body noticed. 

It only made John notice it more, especially Harold’s round ass (it would be even rounder with Finch bent over a table and begging while John prepared him). His expressive mouth, which formed a perfect o every time Finch drew breath to speak or opened his mouth in surprise (cocksucking lips if there ever were ones). His hands, fine-boned and as quick as they were precise (just the thing for jerking Reese off). 

His nipples, standing out starkly beneath the thin gray fabric of the tee. (John could picture it, back-to-front with Finch like they’d been in the alley, but this time with Finch naked, pleading while John rubbed those taut nipples, each stroke a shock of pleasure tied to Harold’s groin.)

Reese’s mouth was dry with want. Harold was the most physically alluring, devious, silver-tongued, peerlessly intelligent man John had ever met. He could literally rule the world, financially with his wealth or as a dictator with his Machine, and he chose to do neither, to run with John in this slow-suicide mission to save as many as they could and avenge the ones they couldn’t. Proof that someone was watching, that someone cared. Handler, partner, intel, bankroll, and Control all in one.

John’s. 

“Mr. Reese?” Harold asked. He turned to look behind him.

He turned.

To look behind him.

To see what John was looking at.

John smiled, a soft almost-laugh escaping his lips. Of all the reasons for Finch’s lack of response to John’s chasing and flirtation, _not noticing_ hadn’t crossed John’s mind. It should have. Finch didn’t want his body noticed, so it would hardly occur to him that someone else had noticed and appreciated.

John could see Finch’s expression in reflection of the window, surprise and—unhappiness?

Reese’s stomach dropped. The best part of the fantasy was the slim chance it could come true someday, and he was about to lose his. John blanked his face. He could make this not-awkward, he could save their working relationship and maybe even their friendship.

“I wasn’t expecting this, Mr. Reese,” Harold said softly. Harold’s eyes were still lowered, shuttered. Vulnerable. Exposed. Pleading for—what? Mercy? It wasn’t the look of a straight man being hit on by his male associate, in any case. 

Finch had to know John wouldn’t stop working the Numbers if Finch turned him down. John could almost hearing the gears turning in Finch’s head as he calculated variables and probabilities. Did he think this was a “working” seduction?

John turned off the burner and stepped forward. Finch looked up, sharply. Wary. That stung a little, John had to admit. 

“Tell me you don’t want it, Prettybird,” Reese said evenly, reaching up to brush the backs of two fingers against Finch’s jaw. Soft skin, hard bone. “I won’t say another word.”

Finch’s eyes were wide, processing the pet name and John’s promise. Then his eyes closed.

“I do.” Barely a whisper. John smiled, felt the joy curving his lips and making his heart race. He tilted his head and pressed his mouth to Harold’s.

John had fantasized about finding passion under Finch’s buttoned-up exterior, but experiencing Finch exploding in his arms firsthand was entirely different. Desperate, starving kisses despite the fact John had to do all the head-tilting, hands that were everywhere at once, and Reese’s name panted like a litany, a prayer:

“John, John, oh, _John_ , please--”

John tilted his head again, his lips brushing the shell of Harold’s ear.

“Anything,” he murmured. “Everything.”

**Author's Note:**

> King's real name was Lear, and he was a very good bird (eventually).


End file.
